


Second Hand

by hopeintheashes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="shangrilada.livejournal.com">shangrilada</a>'s prompt at the <a href="ohsam.livejournal.com">ohsam</a> <a href="http://ohsam.livejournal.com/608520.html">birthday challenge</a>: <em>Dean and Jess have the same birthday. Sam tries to put on a brave face and celebrate it as just Dean's. But this year he has a fever and the self-control isn't there. There's crying.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 3 because clearly, what my stories need is more angst. Hah. 
> 
> **Also available on[LJ](http://hopeintheashes.livejournal.com/9126.html)**

“Five… four… three… two… one!” The countdown ends in giggles and shrieks, and then Dean’s covered in more-than-tipsy and less-than-clothed girls who barely look 21.

Sam raises his eyebrows and his beer in his brother’s direction. “Happy birthday, man.” Dean nods back, distracted. One of the girls is currently trying to get her tongue in his mouth. Sam kneads his fingers into his temples. This isn’t something he needs to watch. He stands up and pushes his way over to Dean. “Are you taking the car, or am I?”

Dean looks up, surprised. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I’ll leave you to your… company.” He makes himself smile. “Enjoy.”

Dean tosses him the keys. “Oh, I will.”

. . .

Sam wakes up when Dean comes stumbling through the door at 10:30 am.

“Man!” Dean still sounds slightly drunk, and fumbles as he tries to kick off his shoes. “That? Was awesome.”

Sam groans. “I don’t even want to know.” His voice is hoarse. “Are we doing something? There’s a place in town claiming to have the best burger in the state.”

Dean finishes extricating himself from his shoes and flops down on the other bed. “Give me a minute.” He yawns. “Or more than a minute. Wake me up for lunch.”

Sam’s going on 10 hours of sleep, but the world still spins when he gets out of bed. He feels his way to the bathroom, stays standing just long enough to take a piss and force water down his swollen throat, and then stumbles back to bed.

. . .

He dreams of Jess on her twenty-first birthday. She’d woken up smiling, and they’d spent another hour in bed, until she looked at the clock and gasped that she was going to be late. “Of all my birthdays, my twenty-first has to be on a Monday.” She shook her head, desperately pulling on jeans. “How did you get away with not having class until noon?”

Sam shrugged. “What can I say? I’m awesome.”

“You are.” She leaned in to kiss him again, slow, and then ran for the door, doubling back for her keys. “See you tonight!”

That night, he’d carried her inside and they’d made love, laughing and making promises they never got to keep.

. . .

This time, Sam wakes up when Dean kicks his bed on the way to the bathroom.

“Dude, I told you to wake me up for lunch. It’s already two o’clock,” he calls from behind the partially-closed door.

Fuck. “Really?” He’s shivering.

“Almost. We can still go get lunch, though. What did you say that place was called?”

“Don’t remember. It was downtown, though; should be easy enough to find.”  Every word hurts.

Dean pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. “You okay?”

Sam forces himself to sit up. “Fine. Must’ve had a few too many last night.”

“You and me both.”

. . .

They’re at the place advertising the state’s best burgers, and from the look of rapture on Dean’s face, it must be just about true. Sam smiles in spite of himself. It took all of his energy to get out the door, but it was worth it just for this. Dean had wanted a proper Christmas, and they’d found a way to make that happen; now, he’s set on letting Dean have a proper birthday as well. If he isn’t going to get another one—

Sam puts down his fork and pulls a hand down his face. They will find a way out. There has to be a way out.

Dean’s looking at him, his smile faltering. Sam makes himself pick the fork back up and go back to pushing around his food. “So? What do you want to do with the rest of the day?”

Dean considers, then shrugs. “Want to drive up the mountain?” Sam nods in assent. They’re between cases, and neither of them had tried very hard to find one in the last few days. After Dean’s birthday, they’ll get back to… everything. For now, they deserve a break.

Sam catches Dean watching him again on their way out to the car, but ignores him. Tomorrow morning, he’ll give in to whatever this is and stay in bed and let Dean ply him with food and water and whatever’s left in the med kit. He just has to get through today.

. . .

There was a country song on the radio that fall—not her last fall, but the one before—about a guy whose father was dying, and how they both learned to count their blessings and live in the moment and find the bits of good in the midst of tragedy. It made Jess cry (“In a good way!” she’d assured him through her tears), but it made Sam feel sick. Maybe this guy and his father had found inspiration in a death sentence, but Sam was intimately familiar with what it meant to live every day like it could be your last. It had made Dad reckless and single-minded, absent and drunk. It had made Dean into a good little soldier, and it had pushed Sam far away to somewhere he thought he’d be safe.

Turns out, there’s no such place.

He opens his eyes and realizes another hour is gone. Fuck. He needs to stay awake. This isn’t time he’s going to get back.

He’ll have time to grieve for them both soon enough. All the time in the world.

. . . 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just parks on the side of the mountain so they can watch the sun go down. Sam doesn’t have any energy left for talking, anyway.

Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, gently, and leaves it there for a long moment.

The sun disappears.

“Ready to head back?”

 Sam shivers. “Yeah. Did you want to go out again?”

Dean’s looking at him strangely, smiling but sad. Sam’s too tired to place it. “Nah, I had enough of that last night. We can just stay in.”

Sam closes his eyes to stop the tears of relief.

. . .

Dean finds some old action movie on TV and cracks a beer. Sam struggles to stay awake, and fails.

. . .

Time’s up. He’s standing over their graves, _January 24_ carefully chiseled side by side into two polished granite stones. He’s alone, and though the sky is open and blue, there’s no air for him to breathe.  

. . .

He’s gasping and coughing and the TV screen is a sickening, flickering blur. Dean’s on his bed, beer forgotten, pinning his arms and holding him down. _C’mon_ , he’s saying. _C’mon, Sam, wake up._

His eyes finally meet Dean’s, and he gives in to the tears. “Christ,” Dean murmurs, but pulls him close.

It’s a few minutes before Sam can speak, choking out the words: “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, your birthday—”

“Shut up, Sammy. It’s fine.” He pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes, a cool hand lingering on his forehead. “Well, _I’m_ fine. You might not be.”

Sam closes his eyes and leans into the touch. _I’m sorry._

“Thought I told you to shut up about that.” He pushes Sam back against the headboard. Gently. “Stay put.”

Sam’s trying to work out what he might do _other_ than staying put, but he hasn’t gotten anywhere by the time Dean returns with water and pills. He takes the cup with shaking hands and manages to get everything down.

“Better?” asks Dean, taking back the cup. Sam shrugs. Dean sighs. He puts the cup on the nightstand, reaches across, and grabs his beer without getting up. “Shove over.” He settles in against the headboard next to Sam. They watch the movie in silence for a while. When it ends, Dean mutes the sound.

“I always wished I’d gotten to meet her.” Sam looks up, confused. “Jess. Properly meet her. She must’ve been pretty great, to be able to put up with you.” He glances over with a half-smile, then looks away. “I know it’s her birthday, too.”

Sam can’t stop the tears.

“We can go to California. Be there tomorrow.” _You can stand over her grave. Say goodbye. Again_.

Sam shakes his head. He’s dug up too many graves to be able to stand over one without imagining what lies beneath his feet.

“Okay.” Dean takes another swig of beer. “Sam… you know we’re gonna fix this, right?” Sam tries to nod, but can’t quite do it. “It’s all gonna be fine.”

Dean’s made him promises like that before. Like the promises he and Jess made together, about the future, about what they were going to do with all the time in the world. He’s not quite able to believe Dean’s words, but he’s not ready to give up hope entirely, either. Not yet.

There’s an old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Its stuttering second hand ticks onward, persistent. 11:58. He can’t have Jess back, not ever, but Dean’s still here, warm and solid, pressed against his side.  

“Tomorrow,” Dean says, “we’ll look for a case. And we’ll find some demon sonuvabitch and take him out. For Jess.”

_For Jess._

“And we’ll fix this. We’ve got time.”

Ten seconds to midnight, and then it’s a matter of months. Not much time, but maybe—maybe—enough.  

“Tomorrow,” he whispers. Dean smooths a hand over his hair, and the clock ticks on.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

One.

 

 


End file.
